


Save Grizabella!

by dollsome



Category: The Office (US)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:22:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23289211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollsome/pseuds/dollsome
Summary: Angela, Dwight, Oscar, Andy, and Kevin go to see Cats (2019). Dun dun dunnnnn.
Relationships: Andy Bernard/Oscar Martinez, Angela Martin/Dwight Schrute
Comments: 46
Kudos: 115





	1. CATS

**Author's Note:**

> I saw Cats in the theatre. I wasn’t sure why, exactly, life had led me down such a dark path, why I had voluntarily chosen to do such a thing to myself … until now. With the world in terrifying chaos, I am very grateful to look back to that comparably quaint terrifying chaos and try to make sense of it via some of my Dunder Mifflin faves.
> 
> As I have publicized heavily these past many years, my one (1) great The Office sorrow is that Oscar and Andy never went canon. So in this, they are married, because nobody can tell me otherwise! How did Andy go from being a Cornell admissions officer to the husband of Pennsylvania State Senator Oscar Martinez? I do not know, but I’m sure it’s a wonderful saga. (Or, dare I say, plot for a revival??)

It isn’t often that Angela looks forward to going to the movies -- movies are so terribly loud these days, and she only sits through every Marvel release with Dwight because making sacrifices for loved ones is what Jesus would do (even if Angela privately suspects that Jesus might have drawn the line at Ant Man) -- but there’s one theatrical release that she’s anticipating.

“They look deranged,” Dwight snorts after she shows him the trailer on YouTube. “Talk about felines who need to get dosed with Benadryl and then left in the fridge to die.”

“ _Dwight_.”

“I’m sorry.” Dwight’s face is contrite. “That was horrible. I will regret what I did to Sprinkles for the rest of my days. But those are not cats, and they deserve to be euthanized. Are you sure this movie isn’t about zombies?”

“Deadpool, Dwight,” Angela says shortly.

“Right,” Dwight says, his finely honed sense of justice appealed to. “Cats it is, Monkey! The first opening weekend early bird matinee.”

Angela smiles triumphantly. “Good.”

+

“We’re going,” Oscar announces, hanging up from his phone call with Angela. Phone calls from Angela almost always happen at an hour slightly too early to be polite. Fortunately, Oscar’s a morning person.

“Aw, yes!” Andy takes a break from flipping pancakes to punch the air in celebration. “I _knew_ you would change your mind. … Hey, why did you change your mind?”

“Seeing Cats is one thing,” Oscar says, returning to rinsing strawberries in the sink. “But seeing Cats with Angela? That’s so bad it’s priceless. That’s enough for me to break my lifelong rule of avoiding anything Andrew Lloyd Webber touches.”

Andy gives him a scrutinizing look. “Even Evita?”

“Maybe not totally Evita,” Oscar mutters.

“Ha ha, knew it.” Andy takes a moment to revel in smug triumph, then swears under his breath at a pancake burning. “I can’t believe you don’t know Cats. What kind of gay are you?”

“Andy--”

“I can say that now. I’m half-gay.”

“When are you going to accept that bisexual is a term that exists?”

“Uh, when it becomes more fun to say than half-gay. Duh. You _really_ don’t know Cats?”

Oscar carries the bowl of strawberries over to the breakfast nook. “I think I caught some of it on Great Performances on PBS years ago. Believe me, that was enough.”

“Oh, it’s the worst,” Andy agrees easily, dropping the final pancake onto the plate with flourish. “Totally insane. The whimsical children’s poetry of T.S. Eliot does not a great musical make.”

Oscar stares at Andy, waiting for the other shoe -- paw? -- to drop.

“You’re going to sing every musical number in order at me right now, aren’t you?” he says as Andy sets down a plate of pancakes in front of him.

“Let me just sing you every musical number in order real quick,” Andy replies.

Oscar sighs.

“I gotta get m’Cats on somehow!” Andy defends himself. “Some of us are born to play Rum Tum Tugger; you can’t just turn that off. No matter what the Scranton Community Theatre scene tells you when they don’t invite you to callbacks.”

“Maybe it was best to leave your legacy at Sweeney Todd,” Oscar muses, pouring them each some coffee from the French press.

“You think so?”

“The sailor suit worked way better than it had any right to.”

Andy brightens.

And then gets that ‘It’s a capella time’ gleam in his eye. Almost as intensely as he did right before that surprise serenade at their wedding reception.

Oscar tries to save himself. “You could at least eat some of this beautiful breakfast we’ve created first--”

 _“Are you blind when you're born? Can you see in the dark?_ _  
_ _Dare you look look at a king? Would you sit on his throne?”_

“God,” says Oscar. “So much to critique in those lines alone--”

His brain registers the accidental rhyme, and he groans.

“Oh, buckle in, sweetie,” says Andy, drizzling maple syrup onto Oscar’s pancakes with a wild glint in his eye. “We’re doing this. _Can you say of your bite that it's worse than your bark--?_ ”

+

Angela invites Kevin along to the movie too. She likes to find occasions for little accounting reunions, especially around the holidays, which Oscar can appreciate. It’s much easier to feel uncomplicated appreciation for these people when you don’t sit next to them from 9 to 5 five days a week.

They meet up at Regal Dickson City at 10:55 AM; unsurprisingly, they’re the first group of people to step into the theatre, and the employee scanning smartphone tickets gives them a disturbed look when she sees their selection. (Angela insisted on buying tickets ahead of time, lest the showing be sold out.)

“Hey, Oscar, Andy,” Kevin says. “What’s with the getups?”

“We’re incognitoooo,” Andy reports, gesturing to their dark winter coats and hats.

“Technically, I know that it won’t cause a scandal that a state senator went to see a PG-rated movie,” Oscar says, pulling down the earflaps of his hat to try to increase his anonymity. “Technically, I know that. And yet--”

“Better unstylish and safe than sorry,” Andy says.

“Good thinking,” says Dwight. “These cats have scientifically impossible faces and figures that only a pervert could love.”

“I can’t wait to see all the sexy lady cats,” Kevin says.

Dwight makes a ‘See what I told you?’ face.

“Kevin!” Angela scolds. “ _What_ is wrong with you? This is a pure, lovely Christmas miracle for the whole family.”

“Then where’s Philip?” Kevin demands.

“He’s at home minding the new goats,” Dwight says. “He’s eight years old. Where else would he be? Sitting on his fattening behind in a movie theatre? That’s how you get Kevins. No offense.”

Oscar gives Angela a ‘My godson is at home alone with goats?’ look.

“Mose is there,” Angela says.

Oscar’s expression doesn’t change much at that reassuring fact.

“My point is,” Angela goes on, turning back to Kevin, “can this please be the one movie you don’t _sully_ by talking about sexy ladies?”

“But … the girl cats have cat boobs,” Kevin points out.

“I’m pretty sure cat boobs aren’t an existing concept,” says Oscar.

“They are now,” says Kevin with a sly smile.

“He’s got me there,” Oscar says. Andy nods seriously in agreement.

“I can’t believe I invited you two,” Angela sniffs.

“We can go,” Kevin volunteers, pointing a thumb at the doors.

“That’s true,” Oscar says, ignoring his husband’s suddenly pained expression. “We don’t have to stay if we’re going to _sully_ this magical experience for you, Angela.” 

Angela appraises them for a long, searing second. Oscar realizes he’s kind of missed these long, searing seconds.

“No,” she says. “Stay. But when I buy you each your own medium popcorn, you’re not getting any butter.”

“Medium?” Kevin calls after her. “No butter? Angela, _why_?”

Oscar can tell by now when Kevin is self-parodying to get under Angela’s skin. Sure enough, Angela waves a silencing hand at them as she stomps over to the lineless concessions stand.

“I missed this,” Kevin mutters to Oscar, grinning.

“Me too, buddy,” Oscar says, returning his stealthy low five.

“You three are so cute together,” Andy says admiringly.

Dwight snorts.

“What?” Kevin asks him.

“Oh, nothing. Only I have it on good authority that Jim, Pam, and I were the most adorable trio in the office.”

“Whose authority, exactly?” Oscar says.

“Jim’s,” Dwight snarls.

Andy shrugs. “Can’t argue with the Tuna.”

“I guess we’ll just have to settle for Second-Most Adorable Three-Person Group of Human Beings Who Used To Work Together,” Oscar deadpans.

“Stings, doesn’t it?” Dwight says sympathetically, then goes off to help Angela with the popcorn.

+

There’s no one else in the movie theatre.

“How strange,” says Angela, looking around.

“Is it?” Oscar says lightly. “At the 11 AM showing of Cats?”

“That just means we can sing along at our leisure.” Andy jauntily ascends the theatre steps like he’s in Singing In The Rain or something. “Ready to dust off our dueting skills from ye olde days, Angela?”

“Back off, Bernard,” Dwight barks.

Angela flushes in pleasure at her husband’s defensiveness.

“Puh-leeze,” says Andy. “Could you be more two-thousand-and-late? I’m a giddily married man, Dwight.”

“You could have just said ‘happily,’” Oscar tells him as they find their seats.

“I could not, because it wouldn’t capture the sheer force of my happiness.” Andy points at himself. “Giddy City, population: Nard Dog.”

Oscar softens. “I’ll allow it.”

“Thanks, boo. I promise I’m not after your tiny, tiny lady,” Andy adds to Dwight, taking the seat beside him. Oscar sits on Andy’s other side. They take off their incognito winter wear, protected by the cover of darkness. “I just thought that since Ang is the other Cats Head here, we could sing along together.”

“Actually,” says Angela from where she’s sitting in between Dwight and Kevin, “I’m not familiar with the musical.”

“Uh,” says Andy, “what?”

“But Angela,” says Oscar, uncomprehending. “It’s a tacky musical called Cats.”

“About cats,” Kevin adds helpfully.

“How are you not all over this?” Oscar finishes. “How have you not been all over this since it first cursed our planet in the 80s?”

“You know how I feel about the stage,” Angela says a little defensively. “But a heartwarming Christmas movie matinee? That, on the other hand, is perfectly acceptable.”

“So you’re going into this story one hundred percent unspoiled?” Oscar checks.

Angela sits up a little taller. “I am.”

“You’re right,” Oscar says to Andy. “Sometimes ‘happily’ isn’t enough.”

“Giddy City, Population dos.” Andy knocks his fist against Oscar’s.

“Hell yes,” says Oscar.

Over the roar of the trailers, Kevin says, “It’s okay, Angela. I don’t know the plot either. Except that Taylor Swift is a cat … who’s not shaped like a cat.”

Angela lets out an irritated sigh.

“I saw a production of the stage play with Michael in the mid-2000’s, back when he thought being a cultured man about town would make him a hit with the ladies,” Dwight says. He grimaces slightly. “Well. I saw the first fifteen minutes. I got kicked out for punching one of the actors in the face.”

“Of course you did,” says Oscar.

“I’m sorry,” Dwight snaps defensively. “How _else_ was I supposed to react to a dancing human-sized cat sitting on my lap out of nowhere?”

“You’ve got a good point there,” Oscar has to acknowledge.

“When will thespians realize that audience participation is the real punch in the face?” Angela adds.

Oscar nods, and he and Angela smile at each other. They’ve ranted this rant more than once before. (Inevitable, working with Michael so long.) It’s an oldie but a goodie.

It is in this pleasant moment of unlikely solidarity that they settle in to watch Cats.

+

The beginning of the movie is about as bad as Oscar had expected, plus a little extra. The cats (“cats”) really don’t waste any time: they’re whisper-singing and writhing through an alley and using the word ‘Jellicle’ way more often than seems merited.

But there is one thing that shocks him.

“Babe, why aren’t you singing?” he whispers to Andy.

“I didn’t think it would look … like this,” Andy replies in a bleak undertone, his eyes slightly glazed over. “Not to overreact, that’s not really my thing--”

“Yes, you’re a notorious underreacter.”

“--but I may never sing again after what these eyes have seen today.”

“Andy,” says Oscar solemnly, “I believe in you.”

“Why are you encouraging him?” Angela demands, annoyed.

“Because this man’s musical gifts are a source of pure and simple joy,” Oscar retorts, “and I think we could all use that right now.” 

“You just want to get your jollies off watching him serenade you in public!”

“Yes, Angela, this is what all this is about,” Oscar says bleakly. “My jollies.”

“I think what really disturbs me about it,” Andy muses, his attention snagged by the screen again, “is that they all kind of look like Gabe.”

“Oh my God,” Oscar mutters. It’s an epiphany too accurate to bear.

+

The movie drags on. Rebel Wilson shows up, a development that’s discouraging in cinema at the best of times. (Pitch Perfect might be the one exception; it’s one of Andy’s secret favorites, and it’s better than it has any right to be.) Oscar keeps feeling the overwhelming urge to put his hand over his face, like he’s witnessing something that wasn’t meant to be seen by the eyes of man or God. Andy keeps making little noises of anguish.

And apparently, they aren’t the only ones suffering.

Dwight leans over to them.

“These are _not real cats_ ,” he declares in an urgent whisper.

“Really, Dwight?” says Oscar.

“How do you figure?” Andy adds, an amused gleam in his eye as he catches Oscar’s.

“Hmm, let’s see,” snarls Dwight. “A cat cannot pull off its own fur to reveal a sparkly pink outfit underneath. A cat cannot eat a roach with a human face. A cat’s feet do not randomly disappear when it’s walking around. For that matter, a cat doesn’t walk: it prowls, slinks, or meanders. It cannot thrust with a human pelvis, which is all these imposters are doing. There’s going to be a twist where the cats aren’t cats at all: they’re humanoid zombies from a mad veterinarian’s science experiment gone horribly wrong, and it’s up to humankind to defeat them by any means necessary, the more brutal the better. You mark my words.”

“Shhh!” says Angela with such deadly precision it would make a librarian jealous.

“I think you’re onto something,” Oscar whispers to Dwight.

Andy levels him with a disapproving look. “C-Span. Come on. Don’t give him false hope. You’re better than that.”

+

Andy starts twitching with excitement when the telltale opening strains of “Rum Tum Tugger” fill the air.

“It’s your moment,” Oscar prompts, elbowing him lightly. God knows they all need something to lighten up this monstrosity.

“I dunno.” Andy glances, wary, at Angela. “Maybe I shouldn’t; she seems pretty annoyed by us making noise--”

“Andy,” says Oscar, “we’ve got the whole theatre to ourselves. When are you ever going to have this opportunity again? If you let Angela being annoyed dictate what you do, then you’ll never do anything for as long as you live.”

Andy takes the words to heart. That’s one of the things that Oscar likes most about him: the way you can see your words go directly to his soul and light him right up.

“As a wise man played by the delightful Taron Egerton once said,” Andy declares, his verve renewed, “my gift is my song, and this one’s for you.”

He grabs Oscar’s face in his hands and kisses him like he’s about to run into battle, then jumps out into the aisle right on cue:

“ _If you offer me pheasant / I’d rather have grouse!_ ”

There’s no stopping him after that. He knows every single lyric, and his moves are sharp. As he dances through the aisles, Kevin starts clapping and whooping. After a while, so does Dwight. Even Angela looks on in approval once she detects that Andy knows what he’s doing in the Cats department. (She’s had capital-I Issues with Jason Derulo ever since Kelly suggested putting “Talk Dirty To Me” on her and Dwight’s wedding playlist.)

Jason Derulo -- Oscar believes with all the world’s sincerity -- is no Andy Bernard. And that’s not just because they all just had to watch Jason Derulo lapping milk up from a bowl with his human tongue.

The usher comes into the theatre halfway through the number, probably because of the extra noise, and Andy has to scurry back to his seat so he doesn’t get kicked out.

“Whaddya think?” he asks, panting a little as he settles back into his seat.

“After that?” Oscar says. “I’d marry you all over again.”

“Suck it, Scranton Community Theatre!” Andy says happily.

+

Dwight stares deliberately back and forth between Kevin and James Corden’s Bustopher Jones while the latter eats and drinks his way through a garbage buffet onscreen. Kevin has already made it through his medium popcorn and is now working on Oscar’s. (Oscar was happy to give it up. Popcorn before noon? Come on.)

“Stop it!” Angela hisses, swatting Dwight’s arm.

“But it’s uncanny,” Dwight protests.

“You’re right. But it’s very mean, and this movie is our Christmas miracle.”

“What am I supposed to say? ‘Kevin, you’re nothing like that gluttonous lump of insatiable feline up there’?”

“Don’t _say_ anything. This is a _movie theatre_.”

“That cat gets it,” Kevin says in satisfaction meanwhile. “You guys, I think I’ve finally found my spirit animal.”

“Actually,” Oscar says, perturbed enough that he forgets to lower his voice, “‘spirit animal’ is a really problematic term. You’re appropriating--”

“Shut up, Oscar!” Angela snaps.

“Yeah,” Kevin says, delighted. “Shut up, Oscar.”

Andy pats Oscar’s arm consolingly.

+

“These sizes don’t make any sense,” Oscar remarks, watching three cats the size of Barbie dolls ransack some poor, unsuspecting human’s jewelry collection. “What cat would be able to wear a ring like a bracelet?”

“A cat that’s _not a cat at all_ ,” Dwight accuses the screen. “Zombie cat!”

“Finally,” says Angela, unbothered, “some representation for the petite community.”

+

Oscar keeps it together until Jennifer Hudson sings “Memory.” Even Andy singing along, low enough to avoid Angela’s wrath, can’t keep him calm.

“All right, _this_ \-- This is not acceptable! This is where I draw the line!”

“Sit down, Oscar!” Angela says through her sobs. She’s really connecting to this story on an emotional level. Somehow.

Oscar does not sit down. “Why didn’t someone wipe her nose? She’s already being subjected to the indignity of that horrific CGI costume. This woman--”

“This zombie-cat-woman,” Dwight corrects.

“--has an Academy Award. Why are they letting snot run down her face in a movie with a ninety-five million dollar budget? Did they think this was going to get her more Oscar buzz? Did they really think for a single second that this monstrosity stood a chance at any awards show besides the Razzies? Were they insane? La pura idiotez ha ido demasiado lejos! La industria del cine debería avergonzarse, este es el día que muere el arte--”

“Hey, mi esposo favorito,” Andy interrupts, standing up and grabbing Oscar’s shoulders. “Si. Es mal. Es _muy_ mal. Y … disgusting.”

“Asqueroso,” Oscar tells him, coming down from his righteous fury.

“Asqueroso. Pero tu eres fuerte.” Andy pokes his chest. “Y puedes hacer this.”

“You can speak Spanish, Andy?” Kevin asks.

“I’m working on it,” Andy replies. “Estoy trabajando … on it.”

“That makes you _two_ kinds of bi.”

“Hey.” Andy grins. “Thanks, Kevin! I kinda love that.”

“Me too,” Kevin says sincerely. “It’s a cool look for you.”

“YOU’RE RUINING THE EMOTIONAL MAJESTY OF THIS NUMBER!!!” Angela bellows. “Dwight, _stop them_!”

“Silence, fools!” Dwight thunders.

Angela goes back to sobbing at the screen. Poor cat Jennifer Hudson goes back to needing a tissue more than any person or cat in history.

In a lower, conspiratorial tone, almost drowned out by Angela’s weeping, Dwight adds, “That’s a cat-zombie just begging to be euthanized.”

Oscar, Andy, and Kevin nod gravely.

+

Cat Ian McKellen sings for ninety years, projecting the energy of an elderly relative who gets lost at the grocery store, or maybe the energy of an esteemed actor who wandered onto the wrong movie set.

“Oh, Sir Ian,” Oscar says sadly. “Why has it come to this?”

“Stop the ride, I want to gandalf,” Andy quips.

Oscar chuckles.

“Who said Gandalf??” Dwight sputters, waking up from his Cat Ian McKellen-induced nap. 

+

“Now they’re on train tracks?” Oscar says. “Why?? _How_?”

“Finally,” says Dwight. “Something worth my attention.”

“Skrimbleshanks the Railway Cat?” asks Kevin.

“No,” Dwight says, insulted. “Trains.”

“I beg of you,” says Oscar, watching a retinue of ferret-sized cats dance their way across a train track, “someone, anyone. Explain these proportions to me.”

Next to him, Andy’s feet tap dance along with absolute precision.

+

Once the sultry cat Taylor Swift number has come and gone (and it’s true -- there’s no unseeing those cat boobs), all eyes turn to Kevin.

“Nobody talk to me,” he says in somber tones while the plot keeps unfolding onscreen, ignored by everyone except Angela. “Nobody even look at me. I always want to remember this moment.”

“Kevin,” Oscar says.

Kevin holds up a silencing finger and closes his eyes.

“I’m just saying,” Oscar presses on, feeling he must. “Taylor Swift is a very beautiful human woman. How was … cat Taylor … better than, say, the music video to Delicate?”

Angela gives him a questioning look.

“Andy’s a fan,” Oscar adds defensively.

“Andy has a human heart!” Andy says. “The only time she can dance like nobody’s watching … is when nobody’s watching! If that doesn’t move you, then I have one humble request: don’t speak to me.”

“Request accepted,” says Dwight.

“Human Taylor is okay,” Kevin says thoughtfully meanwhile.

“ _Okay_??” Andy asks, disgraced.

“But it’s the erotic appeal of the forbidden that makes this Taylor epic,” Kevin finishes explaining.

“So, cat boobs,” Oscar discerns.

“Cat boobs,” Kevin agrees dreamily.

+

Cat boobs are nothing compared to Villain Cat Idris Elba taking his coat off.

Everybody gasps. Some gasps are more like groans. Others (which is to say, Angela’s) … aren’t.

“That dude looks _naked_ ,” Kevin intones.

“And weirdly like that corporate guy who Angela and Kelly fought over during the Michael Scott Paper Company days,” Andy adds. “How did I not realize until now that Scranton had its own Idris Elba, a humble, handsome soul by the name of … Corporate Guy?”

“You don’t remember the name Charles, but you remember the Michael Scott Paper Company?” Oscar asks.

“Who doesn’t remember the MSPC?” Andy replies. “Really wish I had jumped on that train before it left the station.”

“It lasted for like three weeks,” Oscar reminds him.

“Seemed like they made some really good memories,” Andy says, wistful.

“Oh, honey.” Oscar pats Andy’s hand.

“No talking!” Angela chastises. She doesn’t bother to look over at them, though. Her eyes are shining in the glow from the screen, her lips parted slightly.

Dwight stares at her in alarm.

“I _knew_ this movie was made by horny cats for horny humans,” Kevin says in triumph.

“Made by?” Dwight repeats under his breath, and looks to the screen with renewed suspicion.

“Real talk.” Andy leans closer to Oscar. “Would you kick Hot Kitty Idris Elba out of bed?”

“... I know what I wish my answer was,” Oscar replies with resignation.

“Me too,” Andy says grimly.

+

Cat Jennifer Hudson comes back and sings some more.

“So these cats can do magic,” Oscar begins.

“That cat can do magic,” Andy corrects, pointing. “Mr. Mistoffelees. The extra Gabe-y looking one.”

“But not one of them can conjure up Jennifer Hudson a tissue? Or Judi Dench a time machine and a therapist to help her rethink her choices?”

“They’re _cats_ , Oscar!” Angela cries. “Stop projecting your narrow-minded human values onto them!”

“Did Angela Martin just tell me not to project my narrow-minded values onto something?” Oscar checks with Andy.

“Dark times are afoot, m’dear,” Andy replies. “Or should I say … a-paw?”

“Don’t say a-paw,” Oscar pleads.

“Yeeeah, regretted that one instantly,” says Andy, making a face.

+

It’s the end.

Finally.

It must be.

And yet ...

“Why won’t she stop staring at us?” Oscar says.

Dame Judi Dench, in full cat-faced splendor, is singing very slowly to them, staring right out of the screen and into the darkest corners of their souls. It’s either been going on for thirty seconds or five hours. Time has no meaning anymore.

Andy gives up and buries his face in Oscar’s shoulder.

“Look away, foul demon!” Dwight shouts. “Look away!”

“Maybe it’s a dream,” Andy mutters into Oscar’s neck. “Maybe we’re in the Heaviside Layer right now. Maybe we died and left this all behind in a hot air balloon chandelier--”

“ _So first, your memory I'll jog_

_And say: A cat is not a dog_

_So first, your memory I'll jog_

_And say: A cat is not a dog.”_

“A cat … is not … a dog?” Kevin repeats angrily. He stands up and throws his popcorn across the theatre. The three remaining pieces tumble onto the floor. “That’s it?? I waited two hours for _that_ , and Cat Taylor never even came back?”

“Right? Yes! That wasn’t even up for debate!” Oscar exclaims over Dame Judi’s eternal singing. “You cannot pretend the thesis of your entire story is something you’ve literally never touched upon before. That ‘moral’--” He treats himself to some dismissive finger quotes. “--was completely irrelevant.”

“I told you,” Andy says, drumming his fingers on Oscar’s shoulder. “She’s got some bangers, but she crazy. Er, ‘she’ being the personified spirit of Broadway smash hit Cats. Not … Dame … Judi …”

“Okay,” Oscar interjects gently. Sometimes, you have to steer Andy away from his own awkward verbal spirals.

The lull in conversation draws attention to something they’d all been too distressed to notice before: sniffling.

Everyone looks over to the source of it. As the movie comes to its long-awaited close, tears pour down Angela’s face.

“Monkey?” Dwight says nervously.

They all stare at Angela. Waiting. Oscar’s not sure what for. The sweet release of death, maybe.

“It was _magnificent_ ,” she breathes, dabbing her face with a tissue. (Angela, unlike Cat Jennifer Hudson, never goes anywhere without purse tissues.)

Dwight’s face flips through a Rolodex of complicated emotions before landing on one. A gentle smile lights his face. “I’m glad you liked it.”

“Thank you for agreeing to accompany me,” Angela replies daintily. She accepts Dwight’s offered arm, and together they head for the exit.

“I guess I liked it too, Angela,” Kevin says magnanimously, following them. “It put things in front of my eyes that I never could have imagined. That’s what movies are for, right?”

“Yes, Kevin,” Angela replies, touched. “Yes it is. I’m sorry,” she adds, “that Cat Taylor didn’t reappear. I’m sure she had an intriguing backstory.”

“And an intriguing front story,” Kevin snickers.

“Hey-o!” says Andy.

“Honestly, Kevin! I try and I try with you--” Angela scolds as they continue walking out.

“Angela. You _so_ set me up with that.”

“I was not setting you up!”

“What else was I supposed to say?”

“You were supposed to say, ‘I agree, Angela! She had the potential to be a complicated, nuanced character and go beyond the tired stereotype of the brazen feline hussy strung out on catnip!’”

“I’m exhausted. I don’t want to fight about this anymore. Can you guys give me a ride home?”

“How did you get here, Kevin?” Dwight demands; their voices fade as they walk out the theatre door.

“Maybe we don’t go to the movies for awhile,” Oscar muses, taking Andy’s hand as they wander toward the exit. “Or ever again. First the total prioritizing of style over substance in The Lighthouse, now this? I don’t know, I think I’m giving up. Knives Out was a fluke. Mainstream cinema is dead.”

“Orrrrr,” Andy counters, tugging on one of the earflaps of Oscar’s hat, “you. Me. Christmas Day. Little Women directed by one Miss Greta Gerwig. Crying our eyes out for a solid two hours and then getting our Google Hangouts Finer Things Club meeting on because Pam has been blowing up my Facebook feed with articles about it and you know Toby will jump at any chance at human interaction.”

“Toby’s getting remarried,” Oscar reminds him.

Andy snorts. “For now.” Then he frowns. “Sorry. That was low. Regional manager irrational Toby-hate flashback. Moooving along.”

“Anyway, you’re right,” Oscar acknowledges. “I spoke too soon. I forgot about Little Women. Why didn’t you forget about Little Women?”

“You talk about Greta Gerwig being one of the most promising auteurs of our time _a lot._ ”

“Name me a more confident directorial debut than Lady Bird. I’ll wait.” 

“Besides, I’m trying to figure out if _Timothee Chalamet_ \--” Andy says the name with the affected French pronunciation of the candelabra in Beauty and the Beast. “--is good-looking or just weird.”

Oscar grimaces. “He reminds me of Ryan.”

“Oh my God, he totally does. Wait. Is Ryan good-looking or just weird?”

“Nobody but Kelly can answer that question. Maybe Michael. Anyway, the rest of us shouldn’t try.”

Andy chuckles. “You know what? I’m glad Dunder Mifflin Scranton lives on in spirit all these years later.”

Oscar smiles at him. “Me too.”

“You can take the people out of DMS, but you can’t take the DMS out of the people.”

Once, Oscar would have shuddered at the thought. Now, with the perspective that comes from years apart, it’s kind of nice. “Truer words were never spoken.”

“But,” Andy adds, bumping his shoulder affectionately against Oscar’s, “I’m super glad you’re the number one Dunder Mifflin Scrantonite en mi vida.”

“Really?" Oscar quips. "I kind of wish I’d gone for Creed instead."

Andy laughs, the sound warm and familiar, the best possible antidote to recently viewing the most horrifying movie of all time.

Then he freezes. “Wait. Really?”

“No, Andy. I’m teasing you.”

“Phew,” Andy says. “Because I really don’t think I can compete with that guy in the weird old man department.”

“Ehh,” says Oscar fondly. “Give it time, Rum Tum Tugger. Give it time.”


	2. CODA

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the absolute ones of people asking, "But what happened with Dwight and Angela after that thrilling adventure in the first part?".
> 
> Your dreams have come true!

Dwight returns to Schrute Farms with a distinct sense of unease. Even the fact that Philip has kept the goats (and Mose) in perfect order can’t assuage it, and that’s when he realizes what he must do.

“Guess what I did today,” he says into the phone a few minutes later, standing out on the porch and watching the snow drift to the ground.

“Literally my favorite way to start a phone call,” Jim says. “Did it involve--” He pauses pensively. “--beets?”

“Regrettably, no. I went to see a hideous monstrosity masquerading as a motion picture.”

“Eesh. The new Star Wars was that bad, huh?”

“It wasn’t Star Wars. I haven’t seen that yet.”

“Boy, you’ve really grown.”

“I am a little worried about it.”

“I think we all are.”

“But no,” Dwight carries on, oddly reassured. “Today, it was Cats.”

“... You watched Cats?”

“Yes.”

“ _You_ … watched Cats? The movie Cats?”

“I just told you I did. What are you doing?”

“Hang on a second. I’m just gonna--put you on speaker--” There’s a shuffling sound, and then:

“You, uh, saw Cats, huh, Dwight?” says Pam, poorly concealing her laughter.

Dwight scowls. “Ha ha ha, yuk it up, you two. You weren’t _there_. You don’t _know_.”

“It’s true,” Jim says, sounding strangely pitiful. There’s no laughter in his voice. “We don’t.”

“Is he okay?” Dwight asks Pam.

“I think he’s just really sad that he missed getting to go through that experience with you,” Pam explains. “I’m sure it was something really special.”

“Pfft, yeah. A special _nightmare_ come to life. And I’m not the only one who thought so. Andy, Oscar, and Kevin would totally agree with me. Well, Oscar and Kevin would, at least; Andy danced a little. Kevin was only in it for the cat boobs anyway.”

“You invited Andy and Oscar?” Jim says. “And--and Kevin?”

“Cat boobs?” Pam says faintly.

“They all live locally,” Dwight points out. “You’re sixteen hundred miles away.”

“Right,” Jim says, still sounding crestfallen. “Makes sense.”

“Believe me. You didn’t miss anything.”

“Except watching you watch Cats.”

“Yes, we’ve established that already.”

Jim sighs, morose.

“Why did you call to tell us about this, Dwight?” Pam says. “Not that we’re not glad you did.”

Dwight paces back and forth, like a captive tiger--

No. Not tiger. Too soon.

“I walked away from the film with certain … concerns.”

“Don’t worry, Dwight,” Jim says. “I don’t think Angela’s cats will develop an incredible ability to sing and dance.”

“No, not that,” Dwight says, jotting it down on his mental To Keep A Vigilant Eye Out For list. “It was … Angela’s reaction.”

“How did Angela react?” Pam’s voice is careful. _Too_ careful. That means she and Jim are in a sparkly-eyed silent laughing fit.

“Angela loved it,” Dwight reports. “She loved it so much. What some might describe as ‘too much.’”

“... what did she love?” Pam asks.

Dwight stares broodingly at the distant horizon. “Have you heard of a man named Egret Alba?”

“Like Jessica Alba?” Jim asks.

“No relation.”

“Sure, we’ve heard of Egret,” Pam says.

Dwight tenses. “He appeared in the film … in a state of what I can only describe as sensual cat nakedness.”

“Are you sure you couldn’t have described it another way?” Pam asks delicately.

Dwight ignores her. “What if this changes what Angela expects from me in the sensual human man nakedness department?”

“You know what?” Pam says. “I think this is a guys’ call.”

“I wouldn’t call it a guys’ call--” Jim says.

“Bye, Dwight! Jim will help you with this. If he hangs up, just call him back!”

“Thanks, Pam,” Jim says.

Dwight sighs. Maybe it’s for the best that it be a guys’ call. Pam’s taste in men clearly can’t be trusted.

“You know the razzle-dazzle isn’t my style, Jim.”

“Do I? You’ve always dazzled me.”

“How about razzled?”

“Good point. Razzle’s not your strong suit.”

“These cats had razzle _and_ dazzle. And panache, whatever that is.”

“Yikes.”

“And their names -- so many syllables, each more stupid than the last. What if Angela needs me to be Flippityflazzle for her, Jim?”

“Well, I don’t think you have to worry there, because _that_ is not a real name of anyone or thing that has ever existed.”

“Are you sure?”

“... No.”

Dwight stares into the distance. The world is wide open before him, a majestic stretch of snow-covered fields, but a part of him feels he’s still in that theatre. Watching those unholy hybrids of feline and man. Waiting in vain for the torture to end.

“They were all like that, Jim,” he says, voice low. “All the cats. Too many syllables, too much pizzazz. And they wouldn’t stop singing and writhing like it was mating season instead of guess-who-gets-to-go-to-cat-heaven season. Like a bunch of hairy humanoid weirdly sexual Andys.”

“Yikes.”

“It made the real Andy’s dancing and singing along surprisingly tolerable. And I think the one Angela liked best--”

“The Egret Alba character.”

“Yes, that one -- was called ‘My Cavity.’ That can’t be right, can it? It was a film for families. Thank God we left Philip and Mose at home to mind the goats.”

“Do you want my advice?”

“No, I just called because I miss the sound of your voice,” Dwight scoffs. (It is nice to hear Jim’s voice, but that is neither here nor there.)

“Right.” Jim does one of those thoughtful pauses that always precedes an idea that, historically, it would be better for Dwight not to listen to. “Well, the way I see it, you’ve got no choice. You’ve got to be My Cavity for your woman, Dwight.”

Dwight sighs. He had feared as much. Already, he’d suspected it was the only solution, and when Jim’s right, he’s right.

Not very often, but it’s happened.

Dwight takes a moment to contemplate his new reality, then thinks of Angela’s face staring up at the screen, luminous with fascination. That cements his decision. “Can Pam make me a costume? Something form-fitting in a very caressable velvet.”

“How about you see what you can come up with on your own first? I have faith in your ingenuity.”

“As well you should,” Dwight says, even though privately, he would have liked Pam’s help on this one.

“And Dwight,” adds Jim, “even if the whole My Cavity thing doesn’t work out, remember: Angela married you. Not Egret Alba the sexy cat.”

“Thank you, Jim.”

“Any time, buddy. I mean it. Any time.”

“If there’s ever a Cats 2,” Dwight adds, “I’ll alert you of our viewing plans in advance so you and Pam can make the trip from Austin.”

“I couldn’t ask for anything more.” Dwight has figured out over the years that Jim isn’t usually as sincere as he sounds, but this time, he suspects the words are true.

+

Dwight doesn’t have any caressable velvet available around the farm, and the one man he knows who would have an elaborate cat costume at the ready isn’t answering his text messages.

Dwight _does_ have multiple horse pelts, though, and an invincible sewing machine from 1910, so he makes do.

When the bedroom door opens that night, Dwight poses himself seductively on the bed and tries not to think of what the many generations of Schrutes who occupied this bed before him would say.

At the sight of him, Angela screams and attacks him with an effortless gut punch. Beneath the suffocating agony, he feels a surge of pride toward her. The self-defense lessons are working.

“Dwight, what are you doing??”

“I’m not Dwight,” Dwight rasps through the searing pain. “I’m My Cavity. Meow.”

“This is insane! Why - would - you - do - this??” Angela punctuates each word with a slap on his shoulder.

“I saw the way you looked at Egret Alba My Cavity during the movie,” Dwight accuses. “Lips parted, eyes shining, pupils dilated. Classic signs of sexual arousal. It’s the way you used to look at me during the beet harvest.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Angela protests. “He was a cat! Named _Macavity_ , by the way.”

“A cat man. More man than cat, if you ask me.”

“Nobody asked you,” Angela says, blushing a shade of bright pink that would be bewitching if it wasn’t inspired by a cat man.

“Mose did my makeup,” Dwight offers, trying a different tack to peak her interest in his efforts.

“Mose should stick to whittling and petting zoo makeovers,” Angela retorts, unswayed. “I don’t understand why you would think it was necessary to take a measure this drastic.”

“We’ve been married for almost six years. Now is the time when people start to get sick of each other unless you push the boundaries of wanton sexuality. You remember when Jim dressed as Pop-Eye.”

“That was just an adorable family thing.”

“ _Was_ it?” Dwight asks incisively.

Angela considers it. “Honestly, I wouldn’t put it past Jim and Pam to besmirch a beloved children’s cartoon to get their kicks.”

“Right?”

“I say that with all the love in my heart for them, of course.”

“Oh, of course.”

Angela gives him a slight smile, the one that always accompanies the sweet moments when they disapprove of lesser fools together. (Jim and Pam are two of the finest people on the planet, but beside Angela, they’re as lesser as fools can be.) She nudges him out of the way, then sits down on the bed beside him.

“Dwight, you’re the one who taught me that stories of wonder and fantasy have value beyond being great kindling for a bonfire. Just because this was the most magical tale ever told, a movie that made all my wildest daydreams come true right in front of my eyes, doesn’t mean I want an incredibly handsome made-up cat man more than my real husband. You’re still my very favorite story.”

“And you are mine,” Dwight says, meaning it. Even Battlestar Galactica doesn’t compare.

“And for the sake of fairness,” Angela adds, “tomorrow we’ll go see Star Wars.”

“Yessss!” Dwight pumps his fist, triumphant.

“But tonight,” she adds, her voice taking on a deliberate softness, “Let’s stay in. Take that grotesque getup off.”

“Why don’t you take it off for me?” Dwight asks, one last attempt at cat-man seduction. If Egret Alba can do it ...

“No,” Angela says flatly.

“That’s fair,” Dwight mumbles, humbled, and wiggles out of the stitched-together horse pelts while Angela brings over the water jug and a cloth to remove his shoe-polish whiskers. Maybe it would have worked if Pam had been a team player and gotten involved in the costuming, or Andy had answered his emergency text. But Dwight likes it better this way.

+

Angela flinches her way through every loud sound effect and endless lightsaber battle in the two hours and twenty-two minutes of Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker. (A movie run time for people who don’t have lives, cats, or children, clearly.)

It’s worth it, though, to be at Dwight’s side as he glares and shouts at the screen and gasps and, on occasion, openly sobs. She likes being there, her hand ready to hold his when he reaches for it -- and he always does.

+

“Oh, hey,” Andy says the next day, checking his phone.

They’d decided to have a no-screens day to recover from the movie, an excellent decision only marred by the fact that it hadn’t lasted forever. Andy had played soulful banjo renditions of some of Taylor Swift’s latest hits, Oscar had decimated him at Scrabble (lovingly), they’d cooked a fancy dinner together. Now, it’s back to reality. Or something like it.

“Dwight texted yesterday afternoon. ‘911: Need your cat Halloween costume from circa 2008. Urgent. No questions allowed.’ Then a few hours later: ‘Disregard the above message. Measures not necessary after all. Normal human skin proved sufficient.’ What do you think that was about?”

“I can make an educated guess,” Oscar replies, grimacing, “but I’d prefer not to.”

“Ha ha, yeah,” Andy agrees easily. Then it dawns on him. “Wait. Ughhh!”

“There it is,” Oscar intones, not without sympathy.


End file.
